


smol angsty elf king

by Doitsuki



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Alcoholism, Altered Mental States, Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Feels, M/M, Other, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil does not like to be left alone, especially when it seems he will be that way forever. He has people around him of course, servants and nobles and mindless plebs. None of them compare to his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smol angsty elf king

**Author's Note:**

> was in depressive headspace when I wrote the first 1000 words of this. gg

“You do not have to go.” says Thranduil, sitting high on his throne gazing through dark lashes at his son. He is weary yet alertness prickles at the corners of his mind, a growing frost upon drowsy warmth. In one hand, rich red wine sparkles with the reflection of amber light. The Woodland Realm is as it always has been. Legolas however, is not. In his bright blue gaze there shines a desire, one so fierce Thranduil is both frightened and concerned about.

Legolas shakes his head. Despite it being late in the evening he is clothed from head to toe in hunting gear, his bronze leaf maille stiff and unmoving over his suede-covered torso. “Long have I thirsted for adventure, Adar. Now is my chance, and my formal request to leave these lands.” His choice of words draws a furrowed brow and hardening of the eyes from Thranduil, leaving him mere seconds to seek redemption. “I would deliver the message of that creature’s escape to Rivendell, and meet with kin long lost, those who I sorely miss.”

“You have countless eager companions here, my son. Let a messenger send word, and risk their life before yours. It is hardly befitting of a _prince_ to act as a careless raven, in these times…!” Thranduil has forgotten to breathe and curtly glances aside, the swish of his hair hiding a quick gasp. A deep draught of wine disguises what quavering words would next spill. They curdle in his throat, black-taloned and _wanting_.

Legolas squints. There is his father, the indolent Elvenking, drinking again and throwing the blanket of authority over well-deserved freedom. Smothered and far too warm, Legolas calms his heated blood before it bursts from his veins.

“I shall take my leave with your blessing, Atar. May you fare well in my absence.”

Thranduil does not know what to say, focussed on only keeping his son here and refilling his empty glass. There are no servants around however to attend to his pressing need – only guards to stop Legolas by force if he would just give the command. Thranduil has never once in his seven thousand years of life laid hand or word against his son, not enough to scar his little leaf, oh, no.

Today he is close.

 

~

 

Legolas leaves with a bitter taste on his tongue and the comforting press of a dagger strapped to his thigh. In the dead of night he creeps, well-versed in the schedules of the guard patrols. Thranduil has not shoved him in the dungeons nor imprisoned him in his room for mentioning escape, so he tries it and within weeks, succeeds. Out of Mirkwood and into the Brown Lands he rides, heading for Lothlorien and hoping for a quick swim across the Anduin. His body can handle what it has not yet tasted. He yearns.

~

Thranduil wakes upon his throne, head throbbing with remnant of putrid thought. The sickly feeling in his throat has reached his stomach overnight and he wants nothing more in this moment than to _die_.

 _‘Perhaps I drank too much…’_ he muses, head rolling to one side. Thick, lustrous silk cushions it and his eyes remain closed. _‘For good purpose, I presum… oh.’_ There it is. Immediately he sits up, regrets it and nearly falls. Nearby and watching is Galion, who nearly tears out the lock of hair he’s been fiddling with in surprise.

“Your Majesty! Are you well?”

“My son. Where is he? Last night, he…” Thranduil’s wide eyes are unseeing, glazed from a night of unconsciousness. Galion avoids his gaze.

“The Prince has not been seen since yesterday, my King.”

“Look for him.” Sharp acid edges Thranduil’s words with a hiss. “You must.”

Deep inside, Thranduil knows his son will not be found.

_‘He was always good at hiding.’_

~

Thranduil remembers a time, early in the Third Age.

_He sought his son, all senses on alert for any sign of him._

_“Come out, my little leaf!” he called, forcibly dampening the swell of panic in his chest. “I have something for you~!”_

_Almost instantly Legolas bolted out from behind a tapestry, one so stiff it barely moved._

_“Ada, what is it~!?” The prince’s high-pitched cries were met with an equally cheerful laugh from Thranduil, who bent to scoop up Legolas. Legolas as usual squirmed in his father’s arms, slippery enough to test Thranduil’s muscles. Thranduil however was soft of body and sharp of mind, and cuddled his son close._

_“My love, forever and for always.” Thranduil pressed his lips to his son’s head, kissing soft blonde hair. It was so sparse and feathery, it gave Legolas the appearance of a baby chick. Legolas was, after all, only a few years old. But damn, he could run fast._

_“Aaaadaaaaa!” Legolas whined, having expected food or a shiny trinket. “You’re always doing that…”_

_“Because I want you to know that it is the best gift I can give you.” Thranduil’s soft, mellow voice became hushed as he carried Legolas into an open sitting room, where sunlight and beech branches entered through a huge window. Legolas reached out, eager to escape._

_“There! Let me go, I wanna climb it~”_

_“It is dangerous, little one. Stay here with me a while.” Thranduil’s heart calmed the longer he held his son, and managed to seat himself on a couch without incident. Legolas became very wiggly with all the power in the world, but could not escape. However, Thranduil’s warm chest was beginning to feel unusually comfortable and there was that familiar scent he always seemed to crave._

_“Ada,” he murmured. “Why?”_

Thranduil blinks. He sits at a table, food before him, alone. Servants wait to take his orders in the shadows but he is _alone_. He sees nothing more than the wisps of memory fading before his eyes. Silver shadows of thought flit by, Legolas and moonlight and stories and dreams.

He lowers his head.

 

~

 

After a week, Legolas is confirmed missing and rumored to be _dead_. Everyone in Mirkwood left untouched by the guards usually end up as food for the spiders – those who don’t are left to the wilderness of Middle-Earth. Also known as, _dead_.

Thranduil hears what they say about his son, hears what they say about _him._ He is lonesome, pitiful, a childless father with far too much power at his disposal. Legolas has taken his freedom and will not surrender it lightly. Yet, Thranduil does not wish to accept that he is gone. At breakfast, he sullenly picks at a few delicate pastries whilst gazing out into the forest. Everything is bright and blurred, save for the trees closest to him. When he looks at the sun, it is an annoyance worthy of a face-crushing squint. He trains his eyes on the plate of sweets before him. They taste dry.

Thranduil rises, long silver robes spilling over the edge of his wicker chair. Here on the balcony, jasmine petals litter the ground and their scent calms him. In one hand, he holds his precious wine. He barely makes it down the hallway when he realizes it’s empty.

“You, fetch some more.” A passing servant notes the glass and nods, inquiring where the King will be in a few minutes’ time. Thranduil turns his head aside, slow and deliberate.

“The lounge.”

Half an hour later, Galion comes across a Thranduil who is utterly wasted, splayed across a couch with his head back and robes askew.

“Your Majesty…?”

Thranduil waves his hand up and down. There is little he can feel be it concern or shame when so thoroughly inebriated and he thinks that is a good thing. Galion can bother him if he wishes. He is already on his way to bliss ( _but it is not bliss nor neutrality, only the absence of the all-consuming void of loss…)_ and mumbles something unintelligible. Galion sits on the table and peers. Pale skin, unfocused eyes, a wide, lopsided smile. He sighs.

“You are going to regret this in a few hours…”

Thranduil only laughs. Such silly things Galion speaks of, with his serious face and thin lips. “Shush. Give me a kiss~?”

“You’re drunk, my King. I cannot, in good conscience-”

“That’s… an order… now come.” Clearly having trouble articulating but coherent all the same, a still conscious Thranduil makes a grab for Galion… and falls off the couch. It is Galion who puts him to bed, unwilling to see the great Elvenking make a fool of himself before his other servants. As the head of the Royal Staff, Galion likes to keep things under control. Relations, opinions, tasks. They’re all the same to him. Just like Thranduil, he despises change. Especially the kind that develops in plain sight.

 

~

 

When Thranduil opens his eyes, he cannot regret what he does not remember. Everything save for the time of his previous waking has been forgotten, and _for the better_ , he thinks. Tedious is the life of an elf with everything but the one he wants the most. As usual, Legolas comes to the front of his mind. He reaches to the right for his bottle of wine and grasps a warm, slender hand. The hand overturns and holds his own.

Bleary and sinking into despair, Thranduil jerks his hand away. “What is this?!” he hisses. A gentle, low voice responds.

“Nothing at all, my King. How are you feeling?” Of course it is Galion by his side, as concerned and loyal as ever.

“Awful. Where’s my wine?”

Galion’s eyes narrow just a tad. His words take a firmer tone. “There is no need for wine this morning. You have duties to attend.”

“Duties that would sooner be completed had I not found my drink _stolen_! I left it here last night-”

“And I removed it. Please, your Majesty. Get up.”

Propped up by his elbows, Thranduil turns to look at Galion. His own misty blue eyes are clouded with the haze of unconscious sleep, shadowed deeply in pallor. No other colour taints his face. His lips are a little grey. Shaking the matted spill of flaxen hair from his face, he growls.

“I will remove your treacherous hands if you play games like this again, Galion. Return to me what is mine.”

Galion would very much like to keep his hands and does as bid, after regarding his King for several long, scrutinous minutes. Minutes that would seem mere seconds to a mortal, or perhaps longer due to the weight of such a gaze. The wine is brought out from beneath Thranduil’s bed. It must have been stowed in haste. Once handed over, Thranduil cares not for glass or propriety and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He notices Galion watching.

“Leave.” he grunts, “I will attend what duties I must later.”

Galion bows in silence and exits. He hears Thranduil gulp down what must be the entire bottle and presses a hand to his chest. All elves grieve. But not like this.


End file.
